


dirtying the paper delicately

by Kt_fairy



Series: The Clio Goes West [4]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Period Typical Attitudes, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, cape town shenanigans, rated M for strangled expressions of love through the medium of art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:15:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29221539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/pseuds/Kt_fairy
Summary: It was man’s worst urge, to capture a soft likeness of one’s loverIn which James draws Henry, sentiment and other urges follow.Terror bingo 2021 prompt -Man's Worst Urges
Relationships: Commander James Fitzjames/Lt Henry T. D. Le Vesconte
Series: The Clio Goes West [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2029291
Comments: 12
Kudos: 18





	dirtying the paper delicately

**Author's Note:**

> In the previous fic in this series it was suggested Dundy had Cape Town intentions, so I had to. 
> 
>   
> Great big lump of love for Gwerfel, who I cannot help indulging with Dundy content. It's been beta'd by their fair hand, so any mistakes are from my un-sober tinkering

“My dear. I say,” Henry spoke with drowsy softness, pulling James from his irritated revelry. Which, in truth, amounted to little more than worrying the end of a drawing pencil between his teeth while glaring at the faded whitewash of the wall behind the scuffed writing desk. “You are sighing an awful amount.”

James almost sighed again, but managed to stop himself at the last moment. He scratched the blunt end of the pencil through his hair and sat back in the chair, the rattan digging into his back through his waistcoat. “I suppose I am.”

“What vexes you?” Henry asked, adjusting the arm folded under his head as he turned to look at James from where he was lying on the sagging inn bed like a sheikh of Araby. “Is the landscape of the Cape being frightfully uncooperative?”

James hummed noncommittally. He tipped his head to peer out of the gap in the shutters at the bland, colonial stuffiness of Cape Town, and the distant, grey plateau of Table mountain towering high into the burning red twilight sky.

After the two days of constant wakefulness spent tacking into the roaring forties, icy waves washing her decks while the oncoming gales caused the masts to creak and groan as _Clio_ fought against being pushed onto hidden reefs, every eye aboard had been turned to that mountain. It had become a half fabled beacon of safety, rising above the lethal rocks of the African shore to guide them, sails drenched and pumps going all hours, into the first secure harbour they had moored in since Bombay.

All on _Clio_ had become used to eastern ports over the years; the seeming chaos, even when presided over by European flags, was simply a different form of order that became navigable with patience and familiarity - the same as Arab manners or Indian foods. Cape Town, on the other hand, was Dutch to its core and all the stranger for it. Staunchly Flemish buildings sat stubbornly in the hazy African landscape, dutch names marking every road and business while the clipped accent overwhelmed the hundreds of British and Indian families who had come with the colony being annexed some forty years ago. It was all very proper and civilised and mercantile, and rather lacking in any spirit at all. 

His indifference to the place was not what caused James to sigh. Nor was it because he had all but been ordered off the _Clio_ by Dr Stewart, who had been cornering James to take his pulse and tut ever since Nebet’s untender attentions. He had taken rooms in one of the respectable inns that lined the ordered streets near the harbour; close enough to where _Clio_ was moored that James could faintly hear her bell calling the watches, and for midshipmen, unsteady on land after so long at sea, to bring him reports and lists of purchased supplies several times a day.

The early afternoon had seen Henry had bring today’s business, so they might take the opportunity to explore the land about the town. They had scrambled halfway up Table mountain, getting high enough to appreciate the glittering calm of the ocean stretching from the foot of the mountain out to the unseen Antarctic continent, before declaring it conquered. Afterwards they retired to the inn to partake in the bread and preserves the kindly landlady always brought James with his tea, and, in Henry's case, to commandeer the bed.

James looked from the window to Henry, sprawled where he had dropped down onto the sheets not an hour ago and not moved since. His stockinged feet were hanging off the end of the mattress and his head lay short of the pillows, gracefully greying hair flung back off his face in a romantic swoop. His coat and cravat were discarded and waistcoat half unbuttoned over his stomach in a concession to comfort more than the weather, which was relatively mild compared to the desert places they had sailed.

" _You_ are being uncooperative, old boy," James told him, and Henry raised his head with a startled jerk.

"I?" Henry frowned. "I should hate to be so. Pray, sir, in what way am I being uncooperative?"

"Yes, you," James smiled so Henry would know he was teasing, flicking the pencil between his fingers. "You are being most vexing," he cocked his head when Henry's brow quirked, "and terribly distracting also. Flopped out as you are. _And_ improperly dressed."

Henry’s ears flushed beneath his weathered tan. "I say, _flopped out,_ " he said, crossing his legs with an elegant flourish that was most certainly a playful mimicking James’ own habit. "Would I be more agreeable if I were in cap and coat, be-shoed and be-epauletted? While you sit about in your shirtsleeves."

"No you would not," James, who was always charmed by the way words tumbled out of Henry’s mouth, told him with great fondness.

Henry grinned slowly, the rakish air it gave him undiminished by the pink glow on his face, where the sharp mountain breeze had caught his nose and the heights of his cheekbones; the most striking features on a face that James had thought uncommonly handsome ever since he had first met quiet Mr Le Vesconte on _HMS Excellent_. And had tried not to notice when they met again four years later in the monsoon soaked grandeur of Bombay, Henry cutting a fine figure in his lieutenant’s uniform with a half grown cheetah padding along at his side.

(James spared a thought for Nebet, who now lazed about in the Sultan of Zanzibar’s palace rather than his quarterdeck or Henry’s cabin. Hoping, despite her almost ripping his back to shreds, that she forgave their hasty abandonment of her.)

James dropped his pencil onto his open sketchbook, strewn with the leavings of the pencil eraser he had nursed all through China and the voyage from India, and stared at his attempt to capture Henry’s current repose. His efforts were rendered futile by those architectural cheekbones, the source of these frustrated noises Henry had called sighs.

It was man’s worst urge, to capture a soft likeness of one’s lover, especially if it was unwise or indecent to do so. Not that there was a single indecent thing about Dundy, James thought as he nudged the pencil out of the way to see the way he had rendered the charming wave of Henry’s hair; the three-quarters view of his serene expression as he lay, arms folded behind his head, in dreamlike serenity.

"Being properly dressed before your captain," James stated, "will do nothing about the impossible nature of your face, Dundy. I simply cannot capture it."

"Capture? Oh," he said, trying to peer at James’ sketchbook. "Are you drawing me?"

"Well, yes,” James admitted, shy all of a sudden. “If you do not mind?"

"I don't… of course not," Henry muttered, the flush on his ears spreading over his face. He pushed himself up to sit against the headboard with a grunt, slanting James a look. "I say, I should like to see it. Myself that is."

"Oh…"

"If you mention you are drawing a fellow’s portrait then you must expect a fellow to wish to see it," Henry held out his hand. "I shouldn't like to say "come now" to the commander of my ship."

"It wouldn't stop you," James muttered. He brushed down his trousers as he stood, taking up the book and feeling the twin pangs of doubt and pride at the thought of showing another his scribbles as he crossed the room.

"There," he said as he handed the sketchbook to Henry, needlessly tapping the page before standing back. 

James felt the need to admit to every skill he lacked in portraiture - drawing the views of the Euphrates or the Mughal architecture of India was not the same as being able to capture the tricky proportions of a face - while also wanting to mention each part he was quite pleased with. Instead he said nothing, standing with his hands hanging uselessly at his sides, watching Henry stare at his likeness.

"Good gracious," Henry finally said, glancing up at James with no small amount of surprise. "It _was_ me putting you off. Ha!" he laughed. 

"I would hardly fabricate such a thing," James huffed.

"No," Henry agreed, becoming thoughtful as he turned back to the drawing, touching the shape of his face that James had so struggled to capture. "I am not naive, nor - I hope - arrogant, as to my appearance, or to how fleeting a life at sea makes such a thing. But, that is to say…" he sighed, looking to James with a depth of feeling in his eyes that James never really felt he deserved. And not over such a thing as this, a portrait drawn from an overabundance of sentiment. "I find I am quite at a loss for words."

"Is it that bad?" James joked, and Henry tutted at him.

"I am hardly the hanging committee of the Royal Academy of Arts, but I should say he looks just enough of a handsome rouge to be me," Henry grinned, and James laughed.

"Well I am glad it’s only _just_ enough."

“I should gain a reputation otherwise,” Henry said, turning once again to the light pencil sketch of himself. “It is strange to see oneself through the eyes of one who, well - one who cares for you,” Henry said quietly, watching James perch on the side of the bed, hip resting against Henry’s thigh. “A sweetheart, if I may.”

“You are an unreformed romantic, Dundy,” James told him, voice soft to his own ears even as he threw his hair from his eyes with a haughty shake of his head.

“I shan’t deny that I am romantic,” Henry said archly. “How can I, when the _romantic_ who drew me in such repose has named me so.”

James narrowed his eyes, annoyed at being caught out even as his closely guarded heart warmed dangerously. 

He had always kept his emotions tightly reigned in; either from natural inclination or for his own self preservation he could no longer say. Until Henry that was, who had breezed into James’ affections without a by your leave, and was a dear enough soul that James could not help but feel a very great deal for him.

They had been fine friends from almost the moment they met. The sort who made for efficient commanders of a well tempered ship, equally matched in skill and diligence and a sense of duty; all based on such a mutual affinity and natural regard that James had hardly noticed them slipping into something else. 

As his superior officer - as Henry’s _friend_ , James should have put a stop to it. He should never have let it _begin_ ; but, for all his modest nature and earnest joyousness, when Henry chose which course he was to take it was with an unerring certainty, and once set did not hesitate. 

It was rather a thing to be on the receiving end of, James thought as Henry leant forward so there was barely a hand's length between their faces. The flush of surprise had faded from his face, and instead there was a roguish look in Henry’s eye; the playfulness glinting there full of far more intent than the glances Henry used to cast at Portsmouth barmaids or the saucier sisters of their fellows on _Excellent_. 

"I feel I should commit you to paper in turn,” Henry said sincerely, “but I fear the result might have you pitching me overboard.”

“My vanity is not so mighty, I hope,” James replied, letting Henry take his hand. “Besides, I have resisted all temptations so far.”

Henry snorted, thumb slipping inside James’ undone cuff to sweep over the inside of his wrist, and James tilted his chin so he might be kissed. 

He was obliged at once, Henry curling his hand about the back of James’ neck to haul him forward so he almost toppled onto Henry, teeth clacking together awkwardly and forcing them to pull back. 

“Sorry,” Henry said sheepishly.

James waved that away, shoes clunking against the floor when he kicked them off. He shuffled to kneel astride Henry’s thigh, steady hands grasping his hips as he took Henry’s face in his hands and kissed him properly. 

Henry’ fingers traced idly up and down James’ flank while they traded kisses; slowly at first, for the simple pleasure of it, then with more purpose. James ran his palms down the front of Henry’s worn soft waistcoat, undoing cloth covered buttons so he could press his fingers to Henry’s stomach through his shirt; smiling when Henry sighed into his mouth and wrapped his arms about James to hold him closer.

They sank gradually down to lie on the bed, discarding their waistcoats and James’ cravat as they went. James found himself manoeuvred onto his back, Henry’s legs tangled with his own as he lay half over him, pitching his hips so his thigh nudged James’ stiffening prick. He gasped, letting his head fall back against the pillows, and Henry kissed the heated skin of James’ throat; the scrape of his stubble almost making James squirm.

The sprawling luxury of a bed, low and sagging though it might be, and the privacy offered by a locked door seemed to have brought out the decadent in Henry. He had never been one to take furtive, rushed pleasures even aboard ship, but he paid James close attention now. Yearning warmth spread under James' skin as Henry lay slow kisses to the slip of James’ chest revealed by his undone collar, then to the round of his shoulder, pushing James’ shirt up as he slipped down the bed so he could lay a kiss to his ribs. His fingers skimmed the neat scar on James’ side; a gentle action, but a shadow of pain lingered there from the burning pain of a bullet ripping through him, and James jerked, reaching out to grasp Henry’s shoulder. 

“Ticklish,” James said the half-truth quickly. Henry glanced up as he flicked open the buttons of James’ fly, mischief flashing in his eyes, and James dug his fingers into firm muscle in warning. “I shall kick if you try it.”

“I believe you,” Henry said, a lock of his hair falling to brush James’ skin when he bent to kiss his stomach, skimming his hand up over James’ thigh to lay heavily against his standing prick.

James expected Henry to crawl back over him then; for fumbling hands to grasp at one another, and for them to reach completion either in the other's hand, or rutting against one another while they kissed breathlessly. So when Henry said, “I think I should like to repay you for Yemen,” James was rendered dumb, his breath catching when his mind finally scrambled upon Henry’s meaning. 

He ignored the protestations of his bad arm to push himself up on his elbows to stare down at Henry. “I do not expect you to, Dundy.”

“I know,” Henry said simply. Too simply, really, for a man about to cross the line from merely helping see a friend through on a long journey far from home, to something much less deniable.

“Are you certain? It’s not everyone’s cup of -”

“Oh don’t start that,” Henry huffed, squeezing where James’ was straining against his trousers. “I am a _first_ lieutenant, not even the Lords of the Admiralty might tell me what to do.”

James, who had been but a lowly gunnery lieutenant not two years ago, well knew the truth of that. He sighed raggedly and reached out to push Henry’s hair out of his eyes, finding them full of want where James had expected to see hesitation. 

“I have been thinking about all sorts of things, in vague terms of course -” a flush crept over Henry’s already ruddy cheeks, “- as the usual run of my tastes means that my desires outweigh my knowledge in all this.”

“ _Good_ _Christ_ ,” James breathed.

“And this act, I think, I am sure of,” Henry said slowly. “If you are agreeable, I would like to.”

Desire pooled through James’ like treacle; Henry’s casual admission that he had been thinking of this, and other unnamed things, making his head spin. He could do nothing but nod stupidly, letting his legs fall open for Henry to settle between them. 

James tipped his head back when his trousers were pulled open, looking up at the rafters rather than the sight of himself so prick forward. For the moment he was unable to countenance what was about to happen and yet so burning with anticipation that when Henry took him in hand he twitched. 

He sucked in a breath through his teeth when the flat of Henry's tongue rasped against the head of his prick in a slow slide. Henry hummed curiously and James almost laughed, looking down at Henry to say something about his _'tastes'_ that became wholly forgotten when Henry bent to put his mouth on James. 

“Oh,” James grunted, curling his fingers into the back of Henry’s shirt as his hot mouth descended a few inches before pulling back, fist moving clumsily around the base of James' prick. His toes curled when Henry did it again, forcing his hips to be still when Henry tried to take in even more and retreated quickly, swallowing gracelessly and taking a breath before trying again.

James’ bad arm had started to twinge painfully so he dropped onto his back, letting a great sigh rattle out of him as Henry tripped into a too quick rhythm. He moved his hand from Henry’s shoulder to slip inside his collar, gently gripping the back of his neck to calm his eager, inexperienced rush. 

“Steady,” he murmured as Henry slowed, “easy there. Good.” Words that would have made James feel like a lech if Henry had not made a noise around the head of James’ cock.

He had to bite his lip to keep quiet, free hand grasping the sheets when Henry tried to apply his tongue to the task as he twisted his fist to meet the shallow bob of his head; James straining against the iron grip Henry had on his hip as he tried to chase the honeyed barbs of his pleasure.

It had been a good while since he’d had this done for him, not since he left for China three years ago. Later, with his mind free from the writhing delight of Henry’s attentions - inexperienced though they may be - he would be embarrassed by how quickly he was unspooling towards his end.

Henry pulled away when a curse slipped past James’ lips, the rough sound of their wet, gasping breaths filling the room as Henry crawled over James who reached for him, grabbing a handful of Henry's shirt and giving it a tug.

“Off,” he commanded and Henry sat back on his heels, hauling the article swiftly over his head and hurling it to the floor. He did not immediately return to James’ arms, instead letting his eyes flick over James while he pushed his tousled hair from his tanned face. An action that caused such an effect in James that it startled him, and he could hardly bear it.

He pushed at Henry’s trousers, Henry muttering, “ _I say,_ now _who must be_ steady,” when he moved to undo the buttons, their fingers tangling as they both tried to open his fly, and then James had Henry’s proud, hot length in his hand.

Henry groaned, a cracked noise that rumbled out of him. He bent over James and kissed him soundly, the taste of James on his tongue making them both moan as Henry’s fingers threading through his hair. They rutted together with ungainly, desperate movements, their kisses fading into pants and gasps, to oaths breathed against flushed skin, glistening with sweat, and James was brought teetering back to the edge, hiding his face in Henry's shoulder when he shuddered to completion.

Henry’s voice was ragged at its edges when he bent to whisper a sweet nothing or two into James’ ear, his hand a firm weight on James’ bare hip as he continued to rock against him. James could feel the hot line of his prick sliding through the mess on his stomach, and it was such an obscene sensation that James squirmed despite the sated pleasure in his veins that was trying to sink him into the sheets. He ran his hands down Henry's back and kissed his cheeks while pushing up clumsily into Henry's thrusts; feeling a tug in his chest when Henry spilled between them, groaning "oh, James - Oh," as he buried his face in James’ hair.

They separated after taking a long moment to catch their breath, the relatively cool air of the room making James’ skin tingle when Henry heaved himself up and over. There was a moment of dazed confusion as they tried to find a safe place for James’ sketchbook, which had laid beside them the whole time; Henry finally half tucking it under James’ pillow before flopping out proper, their legs still tangled while Henry's hand rested on James’ forearm.

It was that point of contact, small though it was, that halted James’ sluggish mind churning, as it always did, through regrets at this un-captainly lack of self discipline and control, and his anxiety that he had brought Henry, however willing, down with him. Now all he felt was languid and content, and let his head roll to the side to look at Henry, who was in turn looking forlornly at the wash stand on the other side of the room.

“As you are wedded to this bed,” James said, dropping a kiss to the unblemished skin of Henry’s shoulder, “I shall go.”

“You are a brick, dear,” Henry sighed, catching James’ hand for a kiss before he rolled off the bed with as much grace as a man could manage while kicking off his trousers. 

The floor was warm under his feet, the wood not as smooth or polished as he had become used to on _Clio_. He pressed his toes into the rough grain as he cleaned his stomach and hips; aware of Henry’s gaze on his back, on those fresh scars that James did his best to not think about when he removed his shirt to dab at the worst of the stains, before taking up another cloth and padding over to the bed. 

Henry was sitting up a little, shoulders resting on the headboard in a valiant effort not to doze off, grey eyes heavy with the drowsiness that came after such exertions. James would have let the tepid water from the cloth drop onto Henry’s pale stomach and startle him into wakefulness, but he did not think that would be quite the thing after what Henry had done for him. Instead James pushed the cloth into his hands; pausing a moment to watch the attractive flush on Henry’s shoulders and face darken while he wiped himself down, as if he was more self-conscious of this attention than anything they had just done. 

“I hope you are not putting me to memory for an indecent sort of drawing,” he said, glancing up at James who raised an imperious eyebrow while he clambered naked over Henry to sit beside him.

"I might look at the fellow taking up my bed for no reason at all," he shot back while Henry weighed the dirtied cloth in his hands, judged the distance, and then pitched it across the room to land on the wash basin with a splash. "Oh, good shot Dundy," James grinned, patting him on the leg.

"The training I received upon _Excellent_ continues to stand me in good stead,” he said with exaggerated haughtiness, a pleased glint in his eye.

"God bless her.”

“Aye, indeed. For more than simply nurturing my ability to send things flying a great distance,” Henry agreed, smiling at James in such tired, soft manner that he found himself pressing a quick kiss to Henry’s brow, brushing the backs of his fingers along the cheekbone that had troubled him so.

“Far more, yes,” he said, neither able nor really willing to be more candid about how glad he was they had met at all, let alone that they had become such _good_ friends. 

Henry peered up at James, considering, then shook his head. He let his temple rest on James’ shoulder, and, much to James’ astonishment, was asleep within a second. 

* ***** *

The sharp shrill of the bosun’s whistle welcomed James back onto the _Clio_ four days later. The piercing noise went right through him as he stepped from the gangway onto the gently swaying deck, the barrel’s of the marine’s muskets flashing in the bright afternoon sunshine when they came to attention.

"Welcome back, sir," Lieutenant Pritchard, as officer of the watch, stepped forward to shake James’ hand firmly, his robust face less white and startled than it had been when they slipped, soaked and exhausted, into port almost a week ago. “I trust the short spell on land has treated you well?”

“Well enough, thank you.” James said, glancing over the tidily reefed sails and the ordered deck; pleased to note that the men, who had paused in their business to mark his arrival, seemed as healthy and content as sailors were wont to be.

Henry was standing to the side, next to a row of canvas post bags waiting to be passed down into the quay, his notebook tucked under his arm and his cap pulled down to keep the glare of the sun out of his eyes. The picture, as always, of competent professionalism; wearing his uniform and his duties with the ease of one born to the life of a naval officer.

“I am rested, as ordered,” James continued, Henry stepping smartly forward to shake James’ hand when offered, “and glad to be back aboard.”

“Not been the same without you, sir,” he said, and had the audacity to mean it wholeheartedly. “I have taken the liberty of sending the post ashore - would have done so earlier, but had to ensure all the mids had written to their mothers.”

“Quite right,” James smiled, casting a look at the usually eager midshipmen standing sheepishly by the gunwale. “Carry on, Lieutenant Pritchard. Lieutenant Le Vesconte,” he nodded to them both, turning to thank the sergeant of marines and have his men dismissed, before making his way towards the aft hatch.

There followed the usual rounds that came with coming back aboard ship after an absence. James spoke to the sailing master and the purser, submitted to Dr Stewart taking his pulse yet again - this time nodding his approval of James rather than tutting - and shared a greeting with the men he passed as he made his way around the ship. 

Bridgens was unpacking his sea chest when he finally made his way back into the great cabin. Coffee had already been set out on the table alongside a slice of dense fruit cake that James - who had been too long in Henry’s company - took a great bite of almost at once.

“There’s a book in there for you, John,” James called as he set his cap and coat aside. Bridgens cast him a look of surprise, and James nodded to his bundle of laundry. “I could hardly bring you only my array of dirtied shirts.”

“Oh,” Bridgens said, still surprised as he turned back to the sea chest and lifted the thin tome from it. “Thank you very much, sir.” 

“I did not think you owned Xenophon,” James said as he rounded the table to look at the pile of correspondence and official business that was waiting for him.

“I did not, sir. Until this moment.”

“Good,” James nodded to his steward, “it has the Greek alongside the English translation, which I always found a more fulfilling read.”

“Indeed sir,” Bridgens said, obviously wishing to say more but holding his tongue until later, as James had turned his attention to sorting through the waiting papers.

Here was a letter from Sir John Barrow, which could wait, and a letter from young John Barrow that he tucked beneath the letters from Will that he was most eager to read. The navigational and mathematical work the midshipman had been doing in his absence was set in a neat pile for him to look over, and James raised his eyebrows when he came across a missive bearing the Admiralty’s seal; opening it to find further orders waiting inside.

“Oh wonderful,” James sighed aloud as he read it. “We are being sent to police guano deposits. Good to see the Navy is back to normal after the excitement of a little war.”

“I will see about getting more vinegar and lavender, for the smell,” Bridgens said from James’ cabin, ever practical. 

“And pegs for our noses also,” James muttered, setting the order aside and turning to the last piece of correspondence. A sheet of paper of the same stock that the officers used on _Clio,_ folded in on itself to create its own envelope.

James sent a furtive glance over at Bridgens when he found this seal bore the intricately entwined initials of Henry’s monogram, the very same one he used to stamp all reports he made as first lieutenant. 

James opened it with a casual air, and blinked at his own image looking back at him from the paper. Or rather, he looked in on himself, standing in profile on deck and fiddling with a sextant; rendered in some places with insightful precision and the others in small, hesitating strokes of a pencil.

It was from memory, of course, one of the hundreds of moments Henry would have seen him take a reading of the sun. Such care had been taken over it - over him, _James;_ admiration and affection clear in the way Henry had captured the angle of James’ head, the set of his shoulders, the delicate detail of his hands and the way they were positioned on the sextant.

Later James would feel a familiar, heavy unease about all this. He did not deserve such high regard - for what sort of man had a friend as dear as Henry, and yet could not find the courage to tell him the shameful little truths about who and what he was? 

Now James simply felt hot about the face. His likeness had been drawn before, of course - by his late mama, by Will, and the odd unflattering cartoon by Ned Charlewood - but none of them had made him smile quite like this. Or caused a bright, bubbling feeling to course through him that he would never admit was a giddy sort of astonishment. 

The sound of Bridgens moving about behind him had James folding the paper with nonchalant care, laying it across his lap like a schoolboy as he turned to Will’s letters; smiling at the smudges of a child’s small fingerprints upon the front.

**Author's Note:**

> I skirted around a lot of the issues that there were in Cape Town in this era, and in South Africa in general, regarding race and colonial powers. I'd rather treat it with the respect it deserves than skim over it for a pwp. This is me acknowledging those things.
> 
> Thank you for reading, comments are appreciated :)


End file.
